


Celestial

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Slow Burn, Tribal, this fic is my baby and my first major work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. In the end, Sigurd, shaman of his tribe, will have to find both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Summer had finally arrived for the three Tribes of the Moon. It always crept slowly up on them, with slowly melting ice and the sun that stayed up for so long that darkness was almost forgotten about. It brought with it the tarr, tempted back to the valley by the grass springing from the dirt and the warmth for their calves to grow strong. Birds followed, eager for the fruit-laden trees, and the travelling tribes brought spices and exotic fruits upon their massive steeds. The forest that lined the lake erupted into the chaos that came with life, and the water had warmed enough to encourage children and adults alike into its clear depths.

Sigurd Godsson perched above it all, his home made in a mountainside cave far from the noise and chaos. He was the shaman of the Tribe of the Half Moon, the oldest living person in the valley, and more remarkably, blind for forty winters. He hated summer.

It wasn’t that he disliked every aspect of summer. Having enough food to survive was not something to be frowned upon, and the spirits that lingered around him got chatty, allowing him to share their energy to soothe the ache in his bones. However, the sun stung what remained of his vision, and he was too old to get up every few moments to escape the insects that settled in his hair. There were other memories that ate at him, too, but those were disregarded. He did his best not to mourn in summer.

Disliking things had always been something he was good at.

“Tino!” He called, wincing a little as his dry throat stung in protest. “Come here, would you?” There was a rustle as Tino put down what he had been working on (bundling summer herbs to dry, no doubt), and a few moments later, Sigurd was aware of Tino standing beside him. Tino Godsson was his apprentice, learning to take over from him when he finally passed on. His second name was one given to all shaman to indicate their devotion to the gods – no family but the gods they devoted themselves to.

“Yes, Sigurd?” Sigurd enjoyed imagining what his apprentice might look like, something that matched his soft voice, but there was no time for that now.

“I need you to write something down.” He said easily, turning his head in Tino’s direction. The boy had a powerful spirit, which made it easier for him to sense. 

“Another story?” Tino’s voice pitched a little as he settled on the ground next to Sigurd, and a rustle followed as he drew out the book that he used to note what Sigurd said. He could still remember when he first took Tino on, questioning Anders Gilbertsson on the boy’s ability to write, and when he had been told that he could, Sigurd had quickly set to work telling him everything he knew. It comforted him that his knowledge would not be forgotten as the seasons changed, and even when he became a spirit, part of him would persist here. It was enough for Sigurd.

He only had one story left. He was ashamed of it, so ashamed that he found it difficult to speak, but this was the only story that mattered. It would ensure the tribes never made such a mistake again. Sigurd wanted that much for his people.

“Mm.” A pause. “This began when I was much younger. The Lights had been fading for quite some time, and around the time I reached twenty-one winters, they vanished in their entirety.” Tino’s soft intake of breath was audible. Every person in the Tribes knew that it happened, but he had only told this story twice in his life.

“They – they vanished?”

“Yes. They were being sucked away into a vessel, so to speak. A flask that was a person.” He waved his hand, unsure of any other way to possibly describe it.

“But, ah, how? Aren’t the Lights the breath of the gods?” Tino’s question made Sigurd snort.

“You should know this.” There was another rustle, and Tino cleared his throat.

“Well, there are the three Spinners. They created the universe we live in, and the universe the spirits live in.” There was a pause as Tino flipped through the heavy book on his lap, the parchment crinkling in a way that gave Sigurd a sort of childish satisfaction. “The Spinners’ breath are the Lights, and the Lights are what create the bridge between our world and the world of the spirits. Without the Lights, there is no way for any spirit to leave our world and continue on to the spirit world. It is also impossible for a new spirit to enter the world and become a soul for someone.”

“They just… disappeared?” TIno’s voice was tentative, and Sigurd reached out to stroke Tino’s hand, sighing a little.

“Yes. At the time, it was a disaster. It happened in the midst of winter, and we had nothing to light up the night other than the moon, and the fires we constructed.”

“How did you hunt?” His apprentice responded softly, and the shaman shrugged, biting the tip of his thumb lightly.

“Badly.” A moment to think. “We lived off dried meat, and when we had the chance, fresh meat from the liufr.” There was a long pause, and Tino’s hand wrapped around Sigurd’s, squeezing it gently.

“Is that why the only liufr in the valley is the spirit that follows you around?” He questioned softly, voice heavy with caution. The words sent a shiver through the shaman, and he shook his head slowly, heavinfg himself up and grabbing the wall with a faint grunt. The spirit Tino spoke of was nearby, pacing at the entrance of cave, and it padded over to Sigurd, tucking itself under his arm to help support him. He, like all other shaman, was gifted with the ability to see the dark shapes that drifted over the landscape, the spirits of everything that had not yet moved on to the next world. Some, like the being under his arm, chose to stay in this world.

“No, no. We… we didn’t eat them all.” There was a pause, and Sigurd sighed. “Help me to the grass.” The trio struggled to the small patch of green outside the save, and the sudden wave of heat made Sigurd shiver in disapproval. The sweet smell of blooming flowers was enough to encourage him to take another step forward, and tilting his head upwards, feeling the wind brush his hair back. The spirit next to him nudged his hand as a reminder to keep talking, and Sigurd curled his fingers into the animal’s fur. “So, one day, the hunters had set traps to attempt to catch food, and we found him.”

“What sort of traps?” Tino questioned, and Sigurd sank down onto the ground, eyes turned upwards.

“Baer traps.” There was a sharp inhale, and the soft sound of Tino shifting, clearly thinking something through. Sigurd almost anticipated the words that would come next, but it did not change the thrill of fear that gripped his heart at the question.

“Were you really in love with him, Sigurd?” The shaman knew well that the rumour had long been whispered around all three tribes, and he closed his eyes, trying to think of a response.

“Yes, Tino, I was. I am.” He swiped a hand over his face, trying to keep his composure in check. He needed to keep himself together for this. He needed to tell the truth.

“We found him in the trap in the middle of winter. He was brought to the camp, and we – are you writing this?”

“Oh, ah, sorry!” Tino opened the book, and settling down, Sigurd tried to think.

“We found him, surrounded by the liufr and trapped. That’s when this all started.” He pictured the cold, snowy day, allowing himself to remember every moment of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarr: An animal similar to a caribou, these animals stand at around 1.5 metres at the shoulder, and possess antlers of up to 2 metres from tip to tip. They are usually a patchy white-brown colour, and graze primarily on grass. They migrate over frozen water every year to reach warmer climates, and return in summer via a land route to the hunting grounds of the tree tribes. Tarr make up an important food group for all three tribes, despite living mostly in the low-lying areas around water, which makes it difficult for any tribe other than the Tribe of the Full Moon to make use of them through the two seasons they are available.
> 
> Liufr: Large, dangerous predators, these animals resemble grey wolves. They are about 2 metres in length fully grown, and can come in almost any shade in the regions of white, black and brown. They usually hunt in massive packs of about thirty, but don't often attack humans. They prefer to stay in the mountainous regions, but with food scarce, they have been coming down to attack tarr. Their numbers have been dropping dramatically over the last twenty winters, and there is thought to be only one or two packs remaining in the tribe areas.
> 
> Baer: The baer are massive predators that linger on the south side of the tribe valley where the land meets the ocean, hunting on sea ice for selfee during the winter, and scavenge kills from other animals during the spring and summer. They also are known to eat berries and plants, and their furs are highly prized as coats. During the winter, their furs are white, and other seasons, a dark brown-grey.
> 
> Selfee: Similar to harp seals, these animals spend most of their lives underwater unless breeding.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the worst blizzard of winter, the night they found him. The wind screamed as it raced through camp, and even the coals smouldering inside the sturdy fur-and-wood huts seemed to shiver. Snow came with the wind, sharp as ice, and yet, the howl of liufr on the hunt echoed when the wind silenced for a moment. Sigurd Godsson was curled up inside his own hut, bundled in his sleeping furs and listening the beasts outside, found a quiet relief in the safety of the camp. The massive canines feared fire, and they stayed far enough away to keep the sleeping Tribe safe. Even the most hardened warrior shook when they heard a pack of liufr singing their hunting song, and he was a shaman, learned in the arts of healing and speaking with the Spinners – to face even a single liufr would mean death for him.

He shifted in his furs, facing the wall that shuddered every now and then with the force of the gales. The smell of herbs was a pleasant distraction from the chill, and trying to lull himself to sleep, tried to name them by scent. The strongest was the small, red sweetberries, used in the foulest concoctions to make them taste a little better. There was banewort, and the bark of the forever-greens that kept their needle leaves, even in winter, and fermented fruit to dull pain. Bundles of moss and leaves, and dried hides to bind wounds. It was home, in between all of the plants and skins.

“Get down!” The voice was barely audible over the wind, and moments later, the baying of the liufr pack joined the noise. Sigurd, much to his shame, tucked his furs a little tighter around his ears and closed his eyes. “They’re coming!” Those words jerked Sigurd from his paralyzing fear, and he sat up, scrambling for his ceremonial dagger. Why would the liufr attack a camp? They had never done anything like that before.

Desperation, a voice whispered in his head, and he desperately shook it off as he stumbled to his feet. No. Just because the Lights were gone didn’t mean that the animals would attack them. They could hunt in the dark. Stumbling around in the dimness of his hut, lit only by a dying fire in the centre, he pulled on his boots just as something outside screamed.

The wind died as the pitched scream ended, and Sigurd yanked on his bearskin and tied it at the throat before moving to the door and opening it with a groan. The snow was just high enough that it had frozen the door shut, and in the permanent darkness of winter, often became unbreakable ice only hours after. The fire in the middle of the camp was out, but there were others emerging from their tents with torches – Erzebet Maridottir was the most noticeable. She was the leader of the Tribe of the Half Moon, proud and tall with her brown hair tied back in a plait. Strengthening herbs were knotted through, and in her free hand was a spear. Sigurd’s heart fell.

“Erzebet!” He jogged over, and they dipped their heads at each other in greeting before straightening up. Erzebet’s eyes flickered to the gloom outside of the camp wall, and he grabbed the small plait that hung by his ear, anxiety chewing his belly into shreds. “What’s happenin’?”

“The liufr came to raid the food store, and Gilbert and some of the other warriors went to them them.” She paused, and her gaze moved slowly back to Sigurd. He could recognise something off in their green depths, but for the life of him, he could not figure out what she was feeling. “I – I am not sure whether-”

“Erzi!” The triumphant crow of the head warrior stopped them both in their conversation, and Sigurd turned to see Gilbert Beilsson dragging the carcass of a liufr into camp with the help of Lutz Beilsson, his brother, and Roderick Egillsson. Gilbert might have been difficult to see in the snow if it wasn’t for the gaudy pelts he wore – the furs were dyed shades of blue, and stood out far more against the snow than his eccentric white hair. His brother, Lutz, was the opposite, with blond hair and simple furs. Roderick had his brown hair brushed back, and was the messiest out of the three, with selkee and soft white liufr pelts strung over his shoulders.

“Gilbert! Lutz, Roderick, you’re all alive.” Erzebet wasted no time in speeding over to the trio, Sigurd following at her heels and peering over her shoulder. The liufr was small, a yearling, he decided, but it would still stand taller than him on its back legs.

“Was there only one there?” Sigurd couldn’t help his question – he had heard more; he would swear his life on it. A yearling hunting alone would be extraordinary, too. The look Gilbert gave him in response made him bristle, and he moved to stand beside Erzebet, straightening up and fixing the warrior with a withering stare of his own.

“No. The others were sniffing around the corpse of this one, but as soon as they saw us, they fled.” Roderick indicated the swollen belly of the animal, blood leaking out of a slit in the skin. “I think that, ah, perhaps, it was killed by something that wasn’t an animal.” The bulge in the liufr’s belly shifted, and Sigurd leapt back, grabbing his own knife as Lutz got to his knees in front of the animal.

“Something’s in there.” He muttered, and Sigurd felt bile rise briefly in his throat as Lutz stuck his hand into the long slash down the liufr’s stomach and pulled. A body slid out, and with a cough, the bloody form lashed out and caught Lutz across the face with a knife.

“Shit!” Erzebet flipped her spear and cracked it across the thing’s head, and with a cry, it collapsed into the snow. The knife crunched as it fell into the snow, and Roderick snatched it up as Gilbert caught his brother.

“Lutz-” Sigurd’s throat closed up as he saw the damage, and he dropped to his knees to press his hand to the gash on the warrior’s face. He was dimly aware of Erzebet grabbing the wolf-boy around the waist and dragging him towards the torch one of the tribe members were holding, but he didn’t have time to inspect him. “Lutz, can y’stand?” The warrior went to nod, but groaned as his sliced cheek flapped with the movement. Thinking quickly, Sigurd grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it to Lutz’s cheek to numb the pain, helping him to his feet. “Gilbert, go and boil some water in my hut.” Gilbert, frantic about his younger brother, raced ahead of Sigurd to put a pot of water on the coals.

Moving quickly, Sigurd managed to get Lutz inside and on the bed, and then began plucking herbs from the ceiling and tossing them into the water. He then plucked the tarr bone needle from the table, along with sinew.

“Alright.” He dipped a soft piece of hide into the hot water, rubbing the herbs into it, then pulled it out to look at Lutz. Blood was soaking his cheek and the furs around his collar, and Gilbert, pale as snow, was supporting him from behind. “Lutz, this is going to hurt.”

“It’s fine.” Lutz muttered, and Sigurd carefully pressed the hide to the gash. The knife seemed to have gone through his entire cheek, and after almost ten minutes of holding the hide in place, Sigurd set to work stitching up his cheek. To his credit, Lutz barely made a sound – rather, it was Gilbert who cringed every time the needle pushed through Lutz’s cheek. It took a while – the water had almost cooled completely by the time the wound was stitched, but Sigurd was more than satisfied with his work.

“Open your mouth?” Lutz did so, and Sigurd was pleased to note that the stitches moved with his cheek. “Good. Y’should be fine. I’ll clean it every day.” Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief, and Lutz nodded, looking a little pale himself.

“May I lie down?” He asked stiffly, and Sigurd nodded quickly, helping Lutz get comfortable on the medical furs. Closing his eyes, Lutz seemed to almost instantly pass out as his head touched the ground. Gilbert swallowed hard and looked up at Sigurd – usually, the warrior was fairly hostile towards him, but concern for his brother overrode that.

“He’ll be fine, Gilbert.” Sigurd answered the silent question, rinsing his hands in the water before getting to his feet. “Wait here. I’m going to see what _that_ was.” He let his eyes drift around the tent, resting briefly on the shapeless black spirits near Gilbert and Lutz, before turning on his heel and walking out of the tent. Compared with what the camp had looked like only a while before, Sigurd almost had to stop – the liufr carcass had already been skinned and hung over a roaring fire on a spit, turned by Peter Artusson and Raivis Ivansson. Peter was just thirteen witners, and Raivis twelve, and both had blood from other tribes. That wasn’t unusual, with the shrinking tribes, but Raivis’ father was Ivan, leader of the Tribe of No Moon. He had been abandoned as a sickly runt, as a sacrifice, but Erzebet had frowned and insisted they bring him back. Sigurd himself had only been nine winters, but he could remember Erzebet bringing him with her to the tent to teach him how to feed Raivis, how to warm tarr milk, healing herbs for children and concoctions that brought Erzebet milk for the child. Despite being a mere twenty winters, she already knew she would probably never bear children, likely barren from hunger as a child.

He had seen her longing looks at children, even these days, as leader of the tribe. Sigurd wished he could help her.

Continuing to move his gaze around the camp, he saw Erzebet and Roderick holding down the squirming wildling in the snow. He looked like a newborn, slick and covered in blood, and making his way over, glanced around again. Spirits, small black shapes, were lingering close to the struggle. That was unusual – negative energy unsettled their feeble forms. As he passed a pair of women, staring out through the door, he caught a whisper of their hoarse conversation.

“He was pulled from a liufr. It’s an omen, I’m tellin y’…”

“Is it the one thrown to the liufr by the No Mooners?” Briefly, Sigurd cast his mind to the rumour that had floated throughout the tribes. Years ago, a woman, filled with bad spirits and a pale baby in her arms, had been thrown to a liufr pack. It was cruel, but it was said she had attacked the shaman woman attending the birth and killed her. It was said that the liufr had recognised the innocence in the child and spared him, adopted by the beasts and taught to sneak and hunt like an animal. He rode on the backs of the animals, through blizzards to eat the unsuspecting.

It was ridiculous. There was no way a liufr had the capacity to raise a child, Sigurd was certain.

Finally managing to trudge over to Erzebet, Sigurd noticed the boy had stopped thrashing and was shivering instead. He was dressed only in a layer of thin furs, and a baer-trap was snapped shut around his ankle, piercing flesh and bone. His white hair looked like a nest, full of twigs and dirt. He couldn’t see the wildling’s face, and his skinny arms were bound with rope.

“There’s something wrong with him.” Erzebet panted, and Roderick rolled the wildling over. As he did so, there was a loud crack, and Sigurd quickly dropped to his knees to remove the trap. There was bone visible, and as he gently brushed his fingers against the wound, the boy seized.

“Oh, Spinners-“ The wildling continued to convulse in the snow, and Sigurd suddenly became aware of a painful pressure inside his head. Only moments later, it grew to a blinding agony, and he hunched over, gasping.

“Sigurd?” Erzebet’s hand brushed against his shoulder, and Sigurd closed his eyes, pressing snow to his head. He could hear something else, a soft whisper, and as the cold penetrated his skin, the words become clear.

_eyes, eyes, eyes, human face and wolf teeth and eyes_

“Sigurd!” The soft hand became a slap across his face, and gasping, the shaman stood up. The wildling was still on the ground, the trap beside his leg. Dazed, Sigurd leant on Erzebet’s shoulder.

“Bring the wildlin’ t’my tent. I need some herbs.” He said dimly, unsure as to whether the words had actually passed his lips are not. The way Erzebet nodded seemed to indicate they had, so he began the slow trudge back to his tent, attempting to understand what had just happened. He had a feeling it was a vision, but a vision without the Lights present in the sky seemed impossible. There were no Spinners to whisper to him.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside, prying off his baer cloak and plucking a bundle of herbs from the ceiling to toss into the pot. When they began to smell, he grasped a handful of snow from the doorway and threw it into the pot. He spared a glance at Lutz, who still appeared to be sleeping soundly, and sinking down onto the rug, he closed his eyes.

What had the words been?

“Sigurd, I brought the wildling.” Erzebet had the unconscious boy hoisted over her shoulder, and with all the grace of dropping a carcass, let him fall onto the other medical bed. Sigurd couldn’t help the thought that Erikur really did look like a newly birthed child, soaked in blood like that.

“Leave us for now.” He crawled over and inspected the boy’s hollow cheeks, running his fingers over them before prying off his crusted cloak. It was thin, and underneath, he was wearing a ragged shirt. It clung to his emaciated chest, and the shaman wrinkled his nose at the smell. Standing up, he moved over to the pot to scoop out some of the boiled herbs. Putting a wad into his mouth and beginning to chew, he scraped the remainder out of the pot and into a bowl before moving back to the wildling. He was still passed out, so Sigurd simply smeared the concoction onto the wound on his ankle, then sank down next to him, pondering as to why he had even asked for the wildling to be brought to him. The boy was clearly feral, and he could have killed Lutz if his knife had swiped just a little closer.

He let his gaze fix on the bottle of deathmarrow that had been purchased from one of the summer tribes that moved through the valley when the ice had melted. A small dab of the white paste would kill the boy in mere minutes, and this would be solved. The thought repulsed him a little, but he got to his knees nevertheless. Uncorking the bottle, he smeared a little of the mixture on his fingertip, admiring the soft glossy sheen on the smooth paste.

“In the name of the Spinners, let his spirit pass onto the other side.” He prayed, kneeling back down and looking around the hut. There was a congregation of spirits crouched behind him, but the one that caught his eye the most was the largest. It looked like a liufr.

Shaking his head, he used his other hand to gently pry open the wildling’s mouth, and taking a deep breath, went to smear the paste on his tongue. Before his finger even reached his lips, however, the boy clamped his mouth shut. Unable to help his shriek of surprise, Sigurd yanked his hand back and wiped it on his furs, not wanting to accidentally ingest the concoction. The previously unconscious wildling’s eyes flickered open, and Sigurd froze, his gaze fixed on them.

His eyes glittered blue, pink, green, purple.

The colours of the Lights.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Your eyes.” The words came soft, unbidden from his mouth, and the wildling snarled at him, teeth bared like an animal. Sigurd didn’t move, however, and grabbed the boy’s face with a hand, twisting it around curiously. There was no way this could be a trick, he was certain of it. A pause, and he remembered the vision he had experienced only minutes before, suddenly feeling rather ill. He had been about to kill this boy, and something in his belly told him that it would have been a terrible mistake. “They- you, the Lights?”

“Let go of m’face!” The wildling’s voice was whisper-soft despite the fierce aggression, and releasing the boy’s face, Sigurd stood up. He was bound, and he could not hurt him, the shaman knew that much.

“I am Sigurd Godsson, speaker to the Spinners and the guide of the spirits. I wish t’know how you have the Lights in your eyes, boy.” The wildling’s face flushed, and he struggled furiously against his binds.

“My name is Erikur!” He growled, the anger in his expression enough to make Sigurd hesitate. However, he did not yield, not to a boy with a blood caked face.

“I don’t care. How did you get the Lights? Why are they inside your eyes?” The sentence seemed to confuse Erikur, but he didn’t allow himself to doubt anything. There was clearly something strange about this damned boy, and he wouldn’t be fooled, not when he could be moments away from discovering the Lights and taking them back.

“I – what are Lights?” The genuine confusion in Erikur’s words made Sigurd hesitate, and turning on his heel, he moved to the table and grabbed a thick book off it. Turning its mostly-empty pages, he stopped on the second page from the back. There, painted in dye, was the Lights that skittered and danced around the sky in winter. He sat in front of Erikur, who was still lying down, and turned the tome to face the wildling. The boy shifted in his bonds, and his eyes flickered briefly up to meet Sigurd’s before moving back down to inspect the book. Sigurd was certain he could see recognition on Erikur’s face, and shutting the book, put it beside him.

“They are, ‘n’ you, boy, have them in your eyes.” Erikur snorted at him, and trying to roll over, cried out when his ankle caught on the bed. Much to Sigurd’s shock, the cry attracted the spirits that had gathered behind him, and they surged forward around his ankle to cluster on the boy’s wound and cover it. The thick, black fog that came from the shapeless things made it impossible to see through to the injury, and frowning, he brushed his fingers through their forms. They scattered off to the side only for a moment, before rushing forward again to settle where they had been before.

“I dun’… dun’ know what y’talkin’ ‘bout.” The tremor in Erikur’s voice seemed to say otherwise, and immensely pleased with his discovery, Sigurd rolled his shoulders back and stood up.

“Don’t move, or you’ll agitate your ankle.” With that, he marched out of the tent, dizzy spell forgotten in favour of informing Erzebet of his discovery . The smell of cooked meat was already filling the camp, and he stopped for a moment to eye the cooking liufr before continuing over to the hut that housed Erzebet. He rapped lightly on the door before pushing it open, blinking a little at the sight that was presented to him. Gilbert was leaning a little too close to Erzebet for his comfort, and she was sharpening her spear, apparently comfortable with the head hunter essentially embracing her. A little miffed, Sigurd raised his shoulders a little and coughed.

“I have some news.” Erzebet straightened up, having the grace to let her face redden just a little.

“Yes, Sigurd?” Brushing his hair back, he took his breath, trying to interject a little more excitement into his voice.

“I found the Lights.” Erzebet’s spear clattered to the floor, and Gilbert jerked up, his breath escaping his chest as his pink eyes fixed on the shaman.

“You did?!”

“Of course he didn’t!” Gilbert snapped, glancing between the pair before he drew himself up. “If you’d found them, the Lights would be in the sky, right now. I don’t see anything.” Sigurd felt irritation bubble in his chest, and he took a step closer.

“They’re in the wildling, right now.” He snapped, feeling his cheeks heat up as Gilbert cackled.

“No! No, they’re not. Erzi, he’s being ridiculous-”

“You’d do well to respect your shaman, Beilsson.” Erzebet’s words were icy, and Gilbert went silent, ducking his head. Erzebet turned to Sigurd, and her face softened a little as she dipped her had at him. “Tell me what’s happening, Sigurd.” Feeling rather smug about how Gilbert had been shut down, Sigurd cleared his throat.

“You were there when I touched him, and I had the dizzy spell. I had a vision, and it spoke of eyes and teeth, and – ah, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t understand it until a few minutes ago. I was tending to the wildlin’s wounds when he woke. His eyes, they glitter like the Lights. The centre of his eyes, where you see the colour, it shifts and gleams. I – I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He quietened, feeling nerves rise in his throat. He was certain he was right, but out loud, it sounded near-impossible. He wanted Erzebet to believe him. She stared at him for a minute, her green eyes piercing, and she gave a slow nod.

“Then we shall cleanse him, and once that’s done, you will set up the fire.” Sigurd nodded slowly, letting himself look at Gilbert. The hunter looked sullen, and drawing himself up, the shaman offered the duo a smile.

“It will be done.” He responded, and with that, he left Erzebet’s hut, trying to think of what head to do. A meal, of course, for him and Erikur, and he would bandage up the wildling’s ankle and wash him. He tried to keep himself looking calm as he made his way back to his hut, not wanting to set the tribe off before they were ready. He was only two steps away from it when there was a loud crash from inside, and feeling a thrill of fear shoot up his spine, he forced open the door. Erikur was halfway to the door, crawling with a horde of spirits swarming his ankle, and Lutz was still out cold, curled under his furs. The bang had been a bowl smashing onto the floor, he quickly realised, his favourite. Narrowing his eyes, he plucked his knife from his furs to point at Erikur, trying to stop his arm shaking.

“Get back on your bed, boy.” He snapped.

“Erikur.” The wildling responded stubbornly, and rolling his eyes, Sigurd grabbed Erikur under his arms and started dragging him back to his bed. Erikur was still bound, so he was confident he wouldn’t be hurt, but the spirits around his legs seemed to be distressed as the boy was dragged away from them and back onto the furs. Sweeping them back with his hand, Sigurd returned to Erikur, who was giving him a strange look. “What are y’touching?”

“Spirits.” He knew his response was flat, but he wasn’t falling for Erikur’s games. If the boy had the Lights, he would absolutely know what the spirits were.

“What? But – but nothin’s there.” Frowning, Erikur squirmed around, kicking his legs a little. Sigurd was about to scold him, but paused – how was the wildling using his injured ankle? He crouched down and wiped off the dressing with his thumb, and as he did so, a shock went through him. His vision went black for a moment, and shaking his head, he blinked a few times.

He was looking at himself. It was just as he had been moments before, crouched over Erikur’s ankle. Bewildered, he tried to look up, and his body moved, looking right at him. He almost immediately retched, trying to look away.

There were holes where is eyes were. They were wide, dark cavities, and his vision flickered as his body gave up on the sight. As his vision went black, he was dimly aware of a weight on his legs, and the body he had been looking at collapsed.

 


	4. Chapter 4

When he opened his eyes, disorientated, Sigurd could move again. He shifted, slowly and checking his hands and chest, he realised he was in his own body again. Patting his chest down, he hesitantly raised a hand and brushed them across his eyes. They were still there.

_Erikur._

Glancing around the medical hut, the stink of vomit hit his nose, and gagging, he looked down. Erikur was unconscious, vomit dribbling down his chin. He still hadn’t put on the hot water, he realised.

“Spinners above.” He muttered, moving to the pot and lighting the coals as he tried to figure out what had happened.

 He’d seen himself without eyes.

It was an experience, to say in the least. Once the fire was crackling, he turned back to Erikur. There were spirits clustered around his ankle again, and grimacing, he reached for his gloves. He’d try this a little differently this time. Slipping on the selfee hide gloves, he knelt back down to brush the spirits aside. The dressing he’d put on the wound had been wiped off, and underneath, where there was bone only just before was a mostly healed wound.

“…” The spirits had been helping the wound heal? That settled it. Spirits never interacted with anyone but those who had contact with the Spinners, the magic of the world. The wildling knew what was happening.

Turning to the simmering pot, Sigurd dipped an old strip of fur into the hot water and squeezed it before moving back to Erikur and beginning to clean his face. Every wipe of the cloth was accompanied by soft chanting as he cleaned away the vomit and grime from Erikur’s face, revealing a rather pretty boy underneath. He was far too skinny, but he looked like someone who would have been pursued by the people of the summer tribes, who were not concerned with strength. Shaking his head to dispel that sort of thinking, he peeled back the grimy jacket that the wildling was wearing best he could while he was tied, and began wiping down his neck. It was a long process, but he managed to cleanse Erikur almost entirely – his face, hands, neck and feet needed to be clean for the ceremony, and he’d be dressed in ritual furs when he woke.

He’d found the Lights. The thought occurred as he moved to find the clothes, and chest swelling with pride, he picked up the shirt and dusted it off. He was going to save the tribes. Being a shaman was worth the cost of it all.

“Mngh…” A groan caught his attention, and glancing behind him, he saw Erikur shifting on the bed. The spirits gathered around him surged away as his leg twitched, and as Sigurd lifted out the rest of the furs Erikur was to wear, he managed to sit up. “… Where are my clothes?” Erikur was dressed in only his shirt and leggings, while his old, ratty clothes had been cleanly sliced away with his knife.

“Y’don’t need them.” Sigurd responded lightly, and holding up the dyed furs, smiled. “These are what you’ll be wearing.” Erikur’s expression immediately shifted to disgust, and he shook his head.

“There ain’t animals that colour.” He accused, and Sigurd couldn’t help rolling his eyes.

“No. These are dyed for ceremonies. You know, the upcoming Moon Festival, you wear these then. We’re having one for you.” He explained dryly, and Erikur bit his lip.

“F’me?” He said slowly, and Sigurd nodded, pleased his explanation seemed to be soothing the wildling.

“Yes. We’re going t’be bringing the Lights back, with your help.” He breezed past the finer details of the ceremony to kneel down and brush his thumb against Erikur’s cheek. “… Will y’attack me if I put the furs on you?”

“No.” Erikur’s eyes flickered, just momentarily, to the side, and Sigurd shook his head, standing up.

“You’re lying.” Moving to the door, he glanced around. There wasn’t anyone handy for him to ask to help hold Erikur down. Lutz was still unconscious, after all. Sparing his patient a glance, he moved back over to his stockpile of herbs, ignoring Erikur’s growling. He could give him passionflower milk, just a few drops, to sedate him, and then change him into the formal garb for the ceremony. It would still be an hour or so until it begun, after all – the bonfire had to be stoked, and the table cleaned of snow. Hopefully Lutz would be awake for the return of the Lights.

The passionflower milk was kept in a flask stored at the back of the room, and unpopping the top of the container, Sigurd gave it a sniff. He felt light headed even inhaling the stuff, and it was quite obviously sweetened with honey. It was good when he couldn’t sleep. Swirling it around a little, he poured a little into a cup and put it near the fire to warm. There would have to be food soon, too. He could smell the meat crackling outside.

“Thirsty?” He asked quietly, and Erikur gave a little shrug, but the way he tensed indicated he wouldn’t be opposed. No doubt the vomit from earlier had made his throat dry.

The vomit reminded him of the odd experience earlier, and just to assure himself, he raised his hand and brushed his eyelashes with his fingertips. His eyes were there. He could see.

“… Why y’touch y’eyes like that?” Erikur’s childish, demanding tone irked Sigurd, and he turned to the wildling, eyes fixed on his. The sooner the Lights were removed, the better. He wouldn’t have to deal with a feral idiot any longer.

“It is none of your business, boy.” He said shortly. Erikur went red, and he bared his teeth at the shaman like a liufr pup.

“I’m eighteen winters!” That took Sigurd aback – Erikur was only three winters younger than himself? He looked so young, so small, and it was uncomfortable to think someone so close in age to him could be so different.

“I don’t care.” He tried to hide his surprise as he stirred the pot of hot water, figuring he could clean himself up a little before he went outside. No doubt they’d be eating soon, so he wanted to have clean hands for that.

“Fine, boy.” The word sounded odd on Erikur’s lips, but Sigurd did his best to ignore him, continuing to stare down at the pot of hot water. Maybe he should boil some hides for bandages, but he didn’t want to waste the last few animal hides.

“… what’s that smell?” Erikur piped up again a few minutes later, and Sigurd smiled a little, looking back at him.

“It’s dinner.” It smelt like it was almost done, and when Sigurd moved to the door and pushed open the heavy wooden frame. The liufr corpse was cooked, the skin dripping fat into the fire, and Roderick and Gilbert had replaced Raivis and Peter to lift the huge stick off and onto the table not far off. It was a wooden frame, and it looked like it had been quickly swept of snow. The clouds were starting to clear, too, the moon peeking from behind a dark cloud. It only a crescent in the sky, but it would not be long until it was full, and hopefully by then, the Lights would be there to help celebrate the festival, too. Erzebet was approaching the animal with a knife, and everyone cheered as she dug it into the shoulder and sliced a leg clean off. Hefting it onto the table, she began slicing hunks of meat off, and the children surged forward to grab chunks of piping hot meat to tear into. The atmosphere of the camp was lighter than it had been in moons – there was enough food for everyone tonight, and the moon was out. The women followed the children with plates to get some meat for themselves, followed by the men, and last of all, Sigurd. He had a big stone bowl, figuring he could feed both Erikur and Lutz as well as himself. Erzebet was slicing pieces of belly off the liufr when he got there, and she dumped a mixture of still-bloody and well cooked meat into the bowl. It smelt delicious, and Sigurd couldn’t help popping a bit into his mouth as he dipped his head in thanks and turned to head back to his own hut. Opening the door, he held the bowl out in front of Erikur, who’s eyes widened at the sight of hot food.

“Do you want-”

“Yes.’ Erikur said fiercely, and rolling his eyes, Sigurd sank down in front of him and carefully picked a piece out with his hands. Forks and spoons had a habit of shattering in the cold when they were made out of thin stone. Holding it up to Erikur’s lips, the wildling quickly grabbed it in his teeth and swallowed it whole with little difficulty. “More.” Sigurd quickly plucked out another and fed it to Erikur, surprised by his lack of complaining at being fed. Erikur seemed to have no gag reflex, and he’d swallow down the chunks of meat without pausing between them. Chewing wasn’t an issue, apparently.

However, the bowl was soon half empty, and Sigurd wanted some meat for himself as well as some for Lutz, so he put the bowl aside and picked up the cup of passionflower milk, nicely warmed. “Here.” He pressed it to the wildling’s lips, and probably because he was thirsty, Erikur gulped it all down. The effect was almost instantaneous, and Erikur’s eyelids drooped, but he still had enough energy to struggle as he realised what was happening.

“Wha’ did y’give me-” He slurred, and Sigurd carefully wiped a drop of the milk off the corner of Erikur’s mouth before replying.

“It’s milk of the passionflower. It’ll put you to sleep for a while.” He said easily, and Erikur shook his head desperately, the spirits slowly floating closer and closer as he did.

“Why – y’bastard, stupid tribesman, I… I…” His eyes slid shut only moments later, and satisified, Sigurd ate a handful of meat next to the unconscious boy. Liufr was tough and chewy, but in times where they were all so hungry, it was better than dried selfee. Once he’d finished his portion and put it next to Lutz for when he woke up, Sigurd set to work dressing Erikur for the celebration of the Lights.

The rope was pulled off him and folded – ceremonial, dyed rope would be used for this. Then came his disgusting undershirt and leggings, leaving the boy naked on the furs. He could already see goosebumps crawling up his arms, and Sigurd wasted no time inspecting him. The trousers were pulled on first, a layer of woven tarr hide, then a second decorative layer of dyed pelt, decorated with small sigils and pictures dedicated to the Spinners. A shirt, then the final thick cloak, almost brand new, apart from a dark stain on the brown fur. Tying the strings at the collar, Sigurd carefully grasped the red rope next to him and bound his hands together. Erikur was still very much out of it, head lolling back, and lying him back down on the furs, Sigurd got up and went to check on Lutz.

“Lutz?” He shook the warrior’s shoulder, and with a groan, the man stirred, opening an eye to look at Sigurd. A sniff of the air, and he sat up, albeit gingerly.

“Is that hot food?” Sigurd nodded, retreating to get the heavy bowl and set it beside Lutz on the bed.

“Liufr. It’s good.” Lutz carefully grabbed a piece and bit into it, and after a moment, he nodded in agreement. He went back to digging into the liufr, and Sigurd watched him chew. Every few seconds, Lutz would stop to cradle his cheek, but the stitching seemed to have done its job, and Sigurd was happy to leave Lutz to eat. “Oh, ah… we’re going to have a ceremony for the Lights. They… they’re in the wildling.”

“In him? How?” Lutz had to gingerly pry a piece of fat from his mouth to put on the plate, unable to chew it, and Sigurd gave a small shrug.

“I had a vision. They’re there.” The explanation was good enough for Lutz, and the warrior stood up, eyeing the wildling that ripped open his face.

“… he has the breath of the Spinners inside him.” He murmured, and Sigurd nodded a little, standing up to stand over Erikur as well. Spirits had clustered on his neck and chest, quietly squirming away, and one small one even slipped down Erikur’s open mouth and vanished.

“May the Spinners take it back.” Sigurd responded, and he moved to the pot of bubbling water and lifted it off to lay it on the ground to cool. Too much steam would be bad for the dried herbs. That done, he turned around and pointed to Erikur. “Can you lift him up?” Lutz heaved Erikur up in his arms with a grunt, and brushing his fingers over the lump in Erikur’s throat where the spirit was squirming, he moved his gaze to the door.

“Let’s get ready.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sigurd stood at the edge of camp, watching the tribe swarm around. The centre of the camp had been swept off to reveal the grey slab of stone underneath the snow, and Lutz was leaning against one of the frames of the huts. Erikur was still unconscious, and the bonfire was starting to hiss as the snow around it began to melt.

“Sigurd?” Erzebet’s voice was soft in his ear, and he jumped a little, turning to meet the tribe leader’s gaze. She had red ceremonial dye brushed across her cheeks in long triangles, and a black stripe down her lips – she looked fearsome, and Sigurd couldn’t help briefly thinking of the slim girl from the summer tribes he’d encountered winters ago. How they’d both changed.

“Yes?” Erzebet seemed to hesitate before she spoke, but a moment later, she handed Sigurd a staff, carved from bone and with a small skull cemented to the top. A collar of feathers surrounded it, plucked from summer birds – it was made for important ceremonies only. Reverently, Sigurd grasped the staff and turned it in his hands.

“You’re certain that he has them, aren’t you?” Sigurd could hear the hesitation in her tone, and knowing the reason she was doubting his words, reached out and gently grasped her wrist after pressing the staff to the ground.

“He has them. Don’t doubt this now, Erzebet. We’re… we’re so close.” They were, weren’t they? Finally, after almost three moons of darkness, they were going to get the Lights back. He was going to speak to the Spinners again.

“I won’t.” A moment passed, and Erzebet twisted her hand over her chest in a quiet gesture of respect. It took Sigurd by surprise – the gesture was reserved for very formal situations, and to see the leader of the tribe, his close friend, to do such a thing was enough to make him pause. A second passed, and remembering his manners, quickly twisted his own arm to return the motion. They both bowed their heads, Sigurd’s heart picking up a little, and there was a yell of delight from further into the camp as the bonfire picked up.

“Come, my tribe!” Erzebet turned her attention to the group swarming the fire, and they quickly fell silent in front of her, moving forward to cluster around her. Sigurd stayed a step behind, running his gaze over the gaunt faces of his tribe. They were hungry, and alone, cut off from their Spinners, the power that looked after them. He was going to bring back the Lights, and it was all going to be alright again. “Gather around the fire!” The crunch of snow was the only sound as the tribe moved to form a half circle around the fire, all staying in a place where they could view the stone slab. He couldn’t see Erzebet’s face, but he was certain that she was looking over the group, too. The firelight lit them up in an eerie way, especially in the darkness of winter. “Lutz?”

The blond stepped out of the semicircle to stand in front of the tribe leader, Erikur still unconscious in his arms. Sigurd took a slow step forward, raising the staff.

“For nigh on three moons, we have lived in a world without the Lights, without our Spinners’ breath.” His voice was clear in the silence, powerful, and a little more confident in himself, he moved his gaze around the tribe. “Today, delivered from the corpse of a liufr, birthed by the dead, came our redemption. Our Spinners have given us a way to return the Lights t’ – to us, and it this wild boy.” Lutz bowed his head, and with a flick of Sigurd’s staff, he turned and moved to place Erikur on the stone slab, still tied and unconscious. “The Spinners look down upon us, and today, in this offering, we thank them.” The bonfire crackled and hissed, seemingly in response, and with a sigh, Sigurd closed his eyes.

“Spinners, take this sacrifice, take this blood and bone and hold it in your hands. Hold it and breathe your new life into us, renew us, and let our spirits join with yours. Let the Spinners take us.”

“Let the Spinners take us.” The words were echoed by the tribe, and opening his eyes again, Sigurd looked to Erzebet. She still looked hesitant, but nevertheless, she took a slow step forward and brushed her fingers over the wildling’s cheek.

“Let the Spinners take you.” Erzebet’s whisper was so soft Sigurd only just caught it, but he didn’t comment, standing back. Erzebet reached for a burning branch in the bonfire, the fire seemingly surging towards her hand, but just as she grasped it, Erikur screamed.

“Get off me!” He howled, squirming around in his bonds as Erzebet slipped and put her hand in the fire. Soundlessly, she snatched it back and took a step backwards, and Sigurd grabbed his staff. He had to do this himself, and that was fine. It was his job. A glance around at the tribe showed grim certainty in most of their expressions, and spurred on, he raised his staff high.

“Goodbye, Erikur.” He said slowly, and Erikur raised his gaze to look at Sigurd before howling again, this time, in the same manner a liufr would. Shaking his head, the shaman swung down.

Something snapped, and a monstrous liufr was in front of him, the staff gripped in its jaws. Erikur was cowering underneath, and moving his gaze around, Sigurd couldn’t figure out how it had got there. Everyone seemed to be frozen, staring at the shaman and the animal locked in what was sure to be certain death for one of them. Sigurd’s throat was dry. Wetting his lips, he took a deep breath, and pulled.

“Everybody down!” Gilbert’s voice broke the artificial silence, and someone screamed as another liufr leapt over the fire and grabbed Erikur with its teeth, pulling on the robes and crouching so Erikur could stand up and awkwardly straddle the animal. He didn’t have any way to hold on, but it didn’t seem to be a problem, as the shaggy grey beast turned and leapt straight back through the fire without hesitation. Survival kicked in a moment later, and he turned back to the blond-and-white liufr with a hard swallow, shaking like a leaf. The canine had bright blue eyes, and he couldn’t pull his gaze away, no matter how hard he tried. “Sigurd!”

Someone’s voice broke as they screamed his name, and turning, he locked his eyes with Erzebet, who was white as a leaf. He could feel the hot breath of the liufr on the back of his neck, and the gentle brush of fangs against his skin.

“Spinners take me.” He prayed, bile rising in his throat. A moment later, the teeth were pulled away from his neck, and not daring to turn around, he felt the liufr crouch and push its head between his legs. It kept pushing, and with a soft yelp, Sigurd was suddenly on its back, clinging to the thick fur and keeping his eyes closed.

“ _Sigurd!_ ” Erzebet’s scream shattered the delicate silence, and the camp erupted into chaos. He could hear people fleeing and yelling, and the sound of a spear whizzing past his head pulled a soft gasp from his throat. The spear seemed to spur the animal he was clinging to into action, and he dug his nails a little harder into the fur, shaking. He was going to die. He was going to die.

“Get him!” He could hear Gilbert’s yell, and opening his eyes to see where he was, his hand slipped. Scrabbling for a purchase, Sigurd’s fingers slipped through the fur, and he slipped, head cracking on the ground.


	6. Chapter 6

“Wake up, shaman.” Soft words and a softer hand, brushing across his face, roused Sigurd from unconsciousness. His head ached from the impact with a ground, and with a supreme amount of effort, he opened his eyes. He was almost blinded by the white light the moment he did, and wincing, he put his hand over his face.

“…” Letting a moment pass, he moved his hand to squint up at what he assumed was the sky. His back was warm, much warmer than he thought it would’ve been, and the sky was white. Baffled, he tilted his head to the left. He was met with a face barely a hands-length from his own, and choking, he scrambled back, dropping his hand for his knife. It wasn’t there – instead, he was wearing a soft fur tied around his waist, white as snow and decorated at the tips with red.

“Oh, no weapons here, apart from mine.” The blond smiled, and a flash of silver caught his eye as he wiggled his hand. Clasped in the stranger’s hand was a huge pair of something that looked like shears, the kind they clipped fur with, except they were massively oversized. They’d reach to his shoulder, if he was standing. Sigurd swallowed hard, realising he was exposed. The tattoos on his back were tingling, and sitting up with a groan, he reached back to touch the raised scars on the small of his spine. The full moon tattoo was the one he could reach with ease, and brushing his fingers over them, he felt a wetness.

“…?” Pulling his hand back to inspect it, he found a thick, glistening liquid – it was like the mud in the swamps in summer, but it was white. It almost looked like liquid stars. When he looked around, everything was indistinct, like they were in a snow flurry without the snow. “Where am I?”

“Oh, you don’t need to know that.” The man stood up, leaning on the shears and smiling up at Sigurd. He was a few fingers shorter than him, but there was something steely in his violet eyes that made Sigurd nervous, and the thick furs he was wearing seemed to indicate he could have any number of weapons on him. “I’m just here to meet you again.” The words took a second to process, and frowning, Sigurd looked around.

“I’ve never met you before in my life.” He said flatly, and for some reason, that made the man laugh.

“Oh, you have. I’m Tino.” The hand that wasn’t supporting the shears was twisted lightly over Tino’s chest in quiet greeting, but Sigurd didn’t return the gesture, instead taking a step back.

“I need to get back to my tribe.” Sigurd said carefully, and feeling something brush against his back, he spun. He was met with another man, just as dressed as the first, but this one held a bundle of thin red cord over his shoulder, and was taller than him by a hand.

“Y’will, Sigurd! Don’t worry.” The second stranger had a warm voice, and freckles splashed across his face, but something about the way his clothes sat suggested that underneath, he was fairly muscled. Sigurd couldn’t see a weapon on him, however, so he stayed a little closer to him, eyeing Tino. “I’m Mikkel.”

“Interesting.” He said shortly, adjusting the minimal covering he had. Sigurd couldn’t even see any spirits to come and assist him with his capture, and he had no idea where he was. Things were seemingly getting worse and worse. “I need to go.”

“T’capture Erikur?” A third voice, and something moved in his peripheral vision. He turned to meet the tallest out of the trio. He was blond, too, and broad shouldered, but the most interesting thing about him was the cloak he was wearing. It was long, black, and the man had part of it tucked up around his arm, apparently stitching into it. They looked like symbols, but from where he was standing, Sigurd couldn’t recognise them.

“… he has the Lights.” He didn’t need to defend himself to three strangers. They had no business with him.

“That he does.”

“That’s Berwald.” Mikkel explained, and Sigurd raised an eyebrow at him, trying to communicate that he didn’t care in the slightest.

“I need to get them for the tribe. For all the tribes.”

“S’pose y’do.” Berwald shrugged a little. “He’s a life too.”

“The Spinners gave him to me. I need to kill him.” Sigurd responded flatly, and with a crooked smile, Tino stepped forward.

“You will.” He said easily, and hefting up the shears, Tino slammed them into Sigurd’s face.


	7. Chapter 7

Sigurd shot up, head aching as he swung his gaze around. It felt like he was waking from a dream, his vision blurred from the pain in his skull, but he wasn’t warm anymore – a cold wetness was seeping into his pants from the snow he was sitting on, and the glove on his left hand was torn up enough that it was barely a scrap of hide hanging off his wrist.

“Erzebet?” He asked dimly, trying to recall what had happened. There had been a massive pair of shears, and, ah, there had been a pack of liufr, and a fire. His vision was beginning to clear, and as he peered through the darkness, he realised there was a liufr dozing in front of him. Breath catching in his throat, Sigurd slowly moved backwards, his eyes fixed on the beast. Trying to lift his hand to get his knife from the folds of his clothes, something rubbed against his wrist, and as he looked down, he realised he was bound. His wrists were tied behind his back, and the rope was fastened to a needle tree, meaning he could move around, but not much. Around him lay three massive liufr, one the colour of stone, and the other two was the colour of sand. They seemed to be sleeping, which, at least, Sigurd was grateful for. They were huge, even for their species, and something about rousing the sleeping animals spoke of trouble.

Focusing, Sigurd closed his eyes, and a moment later opened them again. He could see the dark, shifting forms of the liufr, but oddly enough, there were only a pair of spirits visible, lingering on the ground next to him. Unfortunately, Sigurd doubted they would have the power to manifest a physical form and free him from his bonds.

Erikur was nowhere to be found.

With a groan, Sigurd shuffled back slowly, leaning his back against the tree and looking out into the darkness. There were stars peeking through the thick cloud, but that was the only light, and it made it difficult to evaluate where he was. Had Erikur brought him back to the camp of the Tribe of No Moon? It seemed unlikely, as he seemed to be on a lean, meaning they were on the steep slopes of either side of the valley. That would mean he’d been unconscious for a while. However, the nagging question was still prevalent; where was Erikur? If those liufr awakened and decided they were hungry, he’d be done for. Without the Lights, his spirit might not even move on, and he’d be trapped here, doomed to wander the landscape. The idea made his throat dry up a little, and shivering, he tried to adjust his cloak a little, wanting all the warmth he could get.

Was his tribe looking for him? Had there been more liufr? Oh, Spinners, his entire tribe could have been devoured. Peter, Raivis, Gilbert, Lutz, Roderick, Lilel and Vash… Erzebet.

The concept of his beloved tribe leader being dead forced hot, desperate tears from the corners of his eyes, and swallowing, he shook his head. Erzebet wouldn’t do that to him. She wouldn’t be destroyed by such stupid animals.

Erzebet.

The first summer he knew her as closely as he could know someone briefly came to mind, and swallowing, he closed his eyes. Three winters ago. If he was to die, he needed to pray.

“Spinners.” He whispered, tilting his head back towards the sky. “Spinners, forgive me. I have done y’wrong in my life, and I do you wrong now. I have abandoned m’post, and even with my return, I carried the weight of what I did. I knew love, not for you, but f’-“

“Shut up.” The bleary voice was enough to silence Sigurd, and opening his eyes, he realised the small form in the dark approaching him was Erikur. In his hand, he held the staff that had been gifted to him when he’d been ordained as a full shaman, and in the other, a curved knife. It was the kind that the summer tribes carried, and none would willingly part with it, surely.

“Y’have killed the tribes!” The words were all he could think of to say, and they seemed to baffle Erikur, as he stopped where he was and glanced down at the liufr next to him. It was the largest out of the trio, built heavily in the shoulders, and nudging the beast gently with his foot, Erikur roused it from sleep. Lifting its shaggy head, the animal turned to eye Sigurd, tongue peeking past the wicked fangs visible even with a closed mouth.

“I did not.” Erikur sounded like Peter when he was accused of breaking something, and it took Sigurd aback. The wildling had nothing more to say than that? He acted like a child.

“Boy, y’dare-“

“I’m not a boy.” Erikur snapped, and Sigurd hesitated, dragging his gaze up and down Erikur’s body. He certainly looked like one.

“Well, girl-“

“’m not one of those! I’m eighteen winters. I’m too old t’be called a boy!” The harshness of Erikur’s tone made Sigurd snort, and he adjusted himself a little where he sat, eyeing him. It was mildly surprising, because that meant Erikur was only three winters younger than himself.

“Well, like I said, I don’t care, boy. You have the Lights, and I will get them back.” A growl came from the liufr that had woken, and heaving itself to its feet, it took a step forward to sniff at Sigurd. Sigurd could smell rotting meat, and shaking, the shaman closed his eyes. The beast’s wet nose touched his forehead, and shuddering, he felt warmth starting to blossom at the point of contact. Confused, he shifted, and as the animal withdrew, he realised it had been spiritual energy pouring through him. A liufr giving him that was bewildering. They were primal, savage animals.

“Cold?” Erikur inquired, and slowly opening his eyes, Sigurd shrugged. He would not ask anything of his captor. He would not lower himself any more than necessary. “Fine.” The sound of Erikur kicking at the snow, a soft crunching sound, caused a small smirk – obviously, he wanted something, too. He’d die before he gave it to him, though. “’m goin’ hunting. You stay here.” He seemed to be talking to the smallest liufr, who flicked an ear, but otherwise didn’t move. The wildling proceeded to drop the staff into the snow, and heaving himself onto the grey liufr, grinned down at Sigurd. “Stay warm, godsman.” With that, he kicked off, followed by the other canine. The sound of them crunching soon faded, and Sigurd let himself relax, just a little. The cold was uncomfortable, but closing his eyes, Sigurd tried to clear his mind. He could meditate a while.

He didn’t know how long the peace lasted. The cold, seeping into his bones, slowly lulled the shaman into sleep, and when he was suddenly jerked awake, he wasn’t entirely sure what had woken him.

A moment later, and another strange wailing sound filled the air. It almost sounded like a howl, and the liufr in front of him seemed to register it as such. Heaving itself to its paws, the beast threw its head back and howled. The noise was haunting, and tremendously loud, enough that Sigurd flinched back and scrabbled around in the needle leaves from the tree, trying to pull his hands up so he could cover his ears. With a snap of its jaws, the creature in front of him ended the sound and sat on its haunches, glancing back at Sigurd. Sigurd had the uncomfortable feeling it knew he was frightened.

There wasn’t another howl for a while. In fact, there was barely a sound from anyone. Sigurd didn’t even let himself breathe too loudly, and finally, the soft crunching of snow indicated Erikur’s return. Emerging from the bracken, Sigurd spotted one of the dogs from the tribe of No Moon slung over the second liufr, and a tarr, skinny from winter hunger, slung over the second. Hunting was difficult this time of year, and to be honest, Sigurd was shocked they’d returned with anything at all.

“You look cold, boy.” Sigurd went tense at the words from Erikur, and he sat up a little.

“Don’t call me that.” He growled. Erikur did nothing but grin. The tarr was shrugged off the second liufr, and the smallest picked it up in its jaws, rumbling.

“You are cold?” The thought of denying it was briefly considered, but Sigurd quickly discarded it – he would die if he was out here too much longer.

“Yes.” He muttered, and nodding, Erikur hopped off the liufr and kicked the staff towards Sigurd. He winced – it wasn’t built for such rough treatment, but with three liufr breathing down his neck, he didn’t dare say anything. Erikur went around behind him, and there was the sudden feeling of his wrists finally being freed. He brought his hands in front of him and gave them a gentle rub, wondering whether he could make a break for it into the woods. The idea was foolish, but he was desperate.

“Get up. Get on.” Erikur made a gesture at the sand-coloured liufr that had gone hunting with him, and the liufr yipped, taking a step forward to sniff at Sigurd. Leaning down, Sigurd picked up his staff and tapped the animal’s forehead with it.

“’m not getting’ on that beast.”

“Yes, you are.” Erikur said easily, and the smallest liufr snarled, encouraging Sigurd to tighten his coat around himself and heave himself up onto the back of the one crouched in front of him. The fur was thick and wiry on the surface, but as Sigurd pressed his fingers deeper, he realised that the fur underneath was soft and warm. A little jealous, he slowly wrapped his arms around the liufr’s neck, reluctant to fall off.

“… does it have a name?” Erikur’s gaze paused on Sigurd, and he shrugged.

“No.” Sigurd looked down at the animal beneath him, and he bit his lip.

“Summer.” He muttered. He’d call this one Summer. Erikur seemed to be rethinking something as he looked at Sigurd, but he shrugged it off, turning.

“Hold on tight.” First, the smallest liufr, who still stood almost up to Sigurd’s neck at the shoulder, erupted into a run, and then Erikur started off. Swallowing hard, Sigurd gave the liufr beneath him a gentle nudge with his foot, and sure enough, the canine started off at a run, howling to the dark sky.


	8. Chapter 8

Sigurd wasn’t sure how long they ran for. It wasn’t an extended period of time, he was certain, but it was long enough that his hands had begun to ache from how hard he was clinging to the liufr beneath him. They only slowed when they reached the near-vertical slope of the valley, where ice had formed over the caves in the side of the cliff and made it near-impossible to traverse. Erikur seemed unconcerned when he glanced over, and swallowing hard, he managed to find his voice.

“Where are we?” A pause, and Erikur slid off the liufr, smiling absently at him.

“Home.” His tone was lazy, far more comfortable than it had been, and Sigurd slowly uncurled one of his hands, the palm aching from where he’d been grasping the staff and the ruff of Summer’s neck. She (Sigurd had decided she was a girl) didn’t move underneath him, and he loosened his other hand, slowly sliding off the animal to stand. The snow was ankle deep here, which gave him hope – perhaps the tribe would be able to track him. Roderick was skilled in finding the animals they hunted, and he knew what to look for.

“Are you goin’ t’kill me?” Sigurd couldn’t help the question. Erikur had dragged him into the wilderness, alone. Would he be fodder for liufr? Would his bones be used as food, and his spirit trapped here for eternity? The thought made his throat close up, but Erikur seemed to be taken aback by the question – his eyes widened, and the largest liufr behind him slunk a little closer.

“What – no. Well, maybe. I’m not sure. I might.” Erikur shrugged, and Sigurd watched his hand drop to the knife sitting at his waist, heart still in his throat. He wasn’t – he wouldn’t die immediately?

“Why do y’… why did those things bring me here?” He made a gesture at Summer, and Erikur took a step closer, pulling the knife out and giving it a little wave.

“I need you. You understand.” His words baffled Sigurd, but a moment later, something clicked.

“You… you have the Lights.” Erikur’s brows furrowed, and he lunged at Sigurd, knife flashing in the darkness. The cold bone pressed against his throat, and the shaman swallowed, eyes narrowed. “Y’need me to help you.”

“I don’t – I have somethin’, but they’re not, I didn’t steal them! I’ve always had them!” Erikur was significantly shorter than him, but the fierceness in his expression made Sigurd feel small. However, a moment passed, and he realised what he was looking at.

“Y’eyes.” He whispered, and Erikur blinked, relaxing a little. The flickering glow in his eyes faded, and everything got dimmer.

“You know what to do, right?” Erikur’s voice was quiet, and Sigurd took a breath. He didn’t. He had been positive that sacrificing the wildling had been the best option, but of course, he wasn’t going to accept that.

“I have an idea.” Sigurd responded stiffly, and the knife was lowered from his throat as Erikur tucked it back into his cloak, the ritual furs that still clad him.

“… follow me.” Erikur turned, and Summer bumped Sigurd’s back with her snout, forcing him forward after the wildling. He didn’t dare look back to see if the other liufr were following them into the cave, and as Erikur walked into the darkness of the cave, Sigurd couldn’t help using his staff to prod his way forward. The ground was lumpy, covered in rocks, and seemed to be sloping downwards. The ice on the floor didn’t help, but as they got deeper into the cave, the ice seemed to melt, and the rocks were replaced with smooth stone. It reeked of liufr, the stink that clung to them from dried blood and dirt, and as Sigurd took another step forward, he felt something snuffling at his ankle.

“Boy, what else is in here?” Sigurd could hear his own voice pitching, but he was too afraid to remedy it – for all he knew, something was about to bite off his leg.

“The pups, and the others.” Erikur’s voice echoed, making it hard for Sigurd to figure out where he was, so he just nudged the animal at his heel with his staff and continued forward, squinting. He could make out a dim shape he thought was Erikur. There was a soft hissing, and about four steps away from him, a small fire caught, a soft red-yellow in the darkness. It illuminated the room they were in – it was much larger than he’d anticipated, with the walls curving to give the cavern a feeling of being circular. There were little, clumsy paintings on the walls that he couldn’t quite make out from where he was, and in the corner lay a pile of furs that looked like Erikur would sleep in them. The fire pit was in the center, a natural dip in the floor, and the carcass of a what looked like one of the summer tribe’s massive steeds that pulled the carts. The trunk had been skinned, and hung, curled, from a spike. There were hunks of other dried meat, too, and scattered on the floor were bones and pieces of hide that looked like it had been chewed. As his eyes drifted around, he saw the ‘others’ that Erikur had spoken of; there were about four liufr, smaller than the three that had been accompanying the wildling, but no less fierce. A pair looked like yearlings, and there were two larger beasts. At their bellies, each of them had three squirming pups suckling and whining. One had a litter that was older – they had their eyes open, and they looked like they could stand. Sigurd couldn’t help his quiet fascination – baby liufr were barely ever seen, and even if they were, they were never this small. However, the clatter of something hitting the floor brought his attention back to Erikur, and he clenched a hand as he watched the wildling turn his head towards him. “If y’sit down, I’ll… I’ll show you the Lights.”

The words sent a thrill through him, and Sigurd glanced around before moving a little closer to the fire and sinking down, wanting to warm himself at the same time. Was he really about to see the Lights return? Maybe he’d be able to speak to the Spinners, and ask them for guidance, for a sign.

“Show me.” 

Erikur nodded a little, and taking a breath, he stepped back and pulled out his knife. Hesitating a little, Sigurd sat up, and as he did, Erikur slashed the knife across his wrist. The wildling yelped in pain, and clenching his hand, he doubled over the wound, but as he did, Sigurd saw it.

With every hard breath from Erikur, the Lights danced in place. It was subtle, but as Erikur straightened up again, they became more obvious. His eyes were glowing, purple and pinks and blues and yellows, and as blood dripped from his arm and into the fire, the Lights grew. The liufr seemed mostly unperturbed by the display towards them, but Summer took a step forward beside Sigurd and looked at the shaman with soft blue eyes, then turned to look at the Lights igniting the air. The other two liufr, the ones that had rescued Erikur, had moved closer to the wildling to lick at his arm, and as Sigurd allowed spirits to appear in his vision, the black shapes of the lost spirits were clinging to Erikur like a fog. They were fading as the Lights grew brighter, and Sigurd swallowed, getting up to move into the Lights. The colours swirled around him, and closing his eyes, he felt the Spinners finally touch him again, the sensation of consciousness pressed against his own. However, a moment later, it faded, and the Lights began to fade, too. Erikur blinked once, and any remainder of the Lights faded. Sigurd’s gaze flickered to where the slit in Erikur’s wrist had been moments before, and all that remained from the injury was a raised scar.

“What was that, shaman?” Erikur’s voice was surprisingly small, and Sigurd couldn’t help his broad smile as he looked at the wildling.

“That was the Lights.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter is short, but I've set a schedule for me to write at, so you can expect much more consistent updates.

“But I didn’t take them! I’ve just always had them!” Erikur’s voice cracked, but Sigurd didn’t pay any particular notice as he picked up the wildling and swung him around, unable to stop his beaming smile.

“It dun’ matter, all that matters is that I found them and we’re goin’ to have them back!” He was speaking so fast he had begun missing letters in words, but Sigurd was more occupied with Erikur. Putting the wildling down, he put his hands on either side of his face and looked at his eyes curiously, able to see the Lights dancing in his irises. “I just have t’figure out how to retrieve them. How long can y’do that for?” Erikur took a quick step back, freeing himself from Sigurd’s hands, and brushing his hair off his face, gave a small shrug.

“About as long as you saw me then. It… it starts t’make me black out after a while.” The way Erikur shifted from foot to foot made it obvious he was afraid, but Sigurd’s own inhibitions had fled in favour of excitement.

“I understand. Y’are… you’re a portal to the next world, for spirits to pass through, and that must take a lot of energy. If we can just put the Lights back in the sky, it’ll all be fixed, and I can leave y’here and tell the tribe-” As the words fell past his lips, Sigurd froze, glancing over his shoulder at the path that led out of the cave. No doubt a search would be starting for him soon. “I need t’return to my tribe and tell them about this.”

“No!” Erikur’s yelp sent the liufr lying at the entrance to their paws, and Sigurd was painfully aware of the animal’s hot breath against his ear.

“Why not?” Sigurd tried to step forward, wanting to get out of the way of the sharp teeth that were far too close to his head.

“Because – because the Lights need t’return to the sky, and there’s no way I can stay here. It’s a cave.” He said flatly, and Erikur frowned at him, his shoulders hunching up.

“I can’t let y’go back. You were goin’ t’kill me!” He snapped. The words sent a thrill of guilt through Sigurd, and swallowing, he pulled his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders.

“That’s – we needed t’see if we could get the Lights back! We-” He petered off as he realised that there was no point in denying what they were going to do. They had tied the wildling up, ready to burn him alive, and the only saving grace had been the liufr that snatched Erikur up.

“Well, what are y’going to do?” His voice sounded flat, even to him, and Sigurd risked a glance over his shoulder at Summer, who was watching him silently.

“You said you had an idea about what to do. What was it?” Erikur’s hand was tightening around the knife in his belt, and Sigurd quickly raised his hands, trying to get the wildling to relax.

“I think – I think with a bit of my help, we can get the Lights to leave you without your death.” He said quickly, and Erikur nodded in approval, turning and starting towards the wall. A piece of dried meat was retrieved, and the wildling jogged back over to hand it to him. He took it, grimacing at the grease that stained his fingers, but lifted it to his mouth and bit down anyway. It was salty-sweet, and the food was welcomed by his empty stomach. It only took two more large bites for him to finish it, and sinking down onto the ground, glanced behind him. The exit of the cave was right there, but with the liufr lying across the entrance, escape was impossible.

Silence took over the cavern for a while. The pups squeaking at their mothers was the only sound, and Sigurd was reluctant to make a scene. It was entirely possible they were being tracked by his tribe right now, and he would be returned without a scratch on him with the wildling. The thought made a small smile grow on his face, and he turned his gaze to the pups. They were small enough to fit in his hand. Erikur seemed to have permission to pet them, since the mothers kept sleeping, even as the wildling picked up one of the smallest pups and pressed his nose to its fur. A little breath, and Erikur tucked it back down before returning to sit by the fire.

“… how long have y’been out here for?” He asked eventually, and Erikur glanced up from the fire, mouth full of hide. There was a moment as he kept chewing, then spat it out, shrugging a little.

“Dun’ know. A long time.” Erikur picked up the hide and put it back in his mouth, much to Sigurd’s disgust. He hadn’t even wiped the dust off it.

“How did y’survive?” He persisted, and Erikur glanced over at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“The liufr helped.” He said shortly, and Sigurd let his gaze fall on the animal he had named Summer, who had settled down to gnaw at what looked like a femur from a tarr. They seemed just as stupid as any other animal, albeit with an unnerving amount of obedience towards Erikur.

“They can’t have. They’re beasts!” He said dismissively, wincing as Summer’s breath suddenly puffed against his ear, threatening him silently. “… Is there anything to eat?” Sigurd wasn’t particularly concerned with being polite, as Erikur hadn’t shown him any courtesy. However, the wildling didn’t take it as a jab, much to Sigurd’s disappointment, and instead got up. He didn’t make a sound as he padded over to some of the drying meat, and tearing it straight off the corpse, returned to Sigurd and dropped it into his lap with a pleasant smile.

“Here.” Sigurd gingerly picked it off his pants and bit into it. It was bland and tough, but it was sustenance, and swallowing it with a cough, reluctantly continued to chew through it. The silence was deafening, and Sigurd wasn’t used to being the one to make conversation. Usually others would fill the silence, but Erikur seemed content to chew on skin and pet a liufr sprawled next to him. Narrowing his eyes, he licked his fingers and cleared his throat again, waiting for Erikur to look at him. The wildling didn’t, and irritated, Sigurd leant forward.

“We need t’see what your abilities are with the Lights, Erikur. We need t’see how long y’can hold them in the sky for.” Erikur’s eyes flickered up to look at Sigurd, and he smirked at the shaman, the look sending a shiver of anticipation down Sigurd’s spine.

“No.” The response, however, was the last thing he expected, and mouth hanging open just a little, he glanced behind him, then at Erikur.

“You can’t be serious! You – you are holding a balance that could ruin this land inside you, and you just say no to me, the shaman you just kidnapped to ask about the damn-”

“Why should I trust y’?” Erikur’s flat tone cut him off, and bewildered, Sigurd straightened up, wondering whether he could stand.

“Because – because I’m a spokesman for the Gods! I know more than anyone in this valley about the Lights! Why would y’not trust me?”

“You haven’t given me a reason to trust you.” Erikur shrugged, and frustrated, Sigurd raked a hand through his hair. How could he show that the boy needed to trust him?! He’d always held a position of respect; he had never had to earn it after he had been blessed.

“… I’ll show you I know what I’m talkin’ about. If I can show you that, y’have to trust me.” He tried, and Erikur nodded, spitting out the hide into his hand and tucking it into the folds of the ceremony robes he was still wearing. Sigurd cringed a little to see the fur covered in dried mud from the cave floor and snow from outside, but he didn’t voice those concerns.

“Alright, Sigurd.” Erikur’s tone was cautious, and when Sigurd met his eyes, his gaze promptly flitted to the side. His face was still blank, but the shaman suddenly had a feeling the other was incredibly nervous. Sigurd couldn’t help remembering the way the wildling had been handled back at the camp, but shaking his head to dispel the guilt, he drew himself up and took a deep breath.

“Give me your hands, wildling.”


	10. Chapter 10

“But I didn’t take them! I’ve just always had them!” Erikur’s voice cracked, but Sigurd didn’t pay any particular notice as he picked up the wildling and swung him around, unable to stop his beaming smile.

“It dun’ matter, all that matters is that I found them and we’re goin’ to have them back!” He was speaking so fast he had begun missing letters in words, but Sigurd was more occupied with Erikur. Putting the wildling down, he put his hands on either side of his face and looked at his eyes curiously, able to see the Lights dancing in his irises. “I just have t’figure out how to retrieve them. How long can y’do that for?” Erikur took a quick step back, freeing himself from Sigurd’s hands, and brushing his hair off his face, gave a small shrug.

“About as long as you saw me then. It… it starts t’make me black out after a while.” The way Erikur shifted from foot to foot made it obvious he was afraid, but Sigurd’s own inhibitions had fled in favour of excitement.

“I understand. Y’are… you’re a portal to the next world, for spirits to pass through, and that must take a lot of energy. If we can just put the Lights back in the sky, it’ll all be fixed, and I can leave y’here and tell the tribe-” As the words fell past his lips, Sigurd froze, glancing over his shoulder at the path that led out of the cave. No doubt a search would be starting for him soon. “I need t’return to my tribe and tell them about this.”

“No!” Erikur’s yelp sent the liufr lying at the entrance to their paws, and Sigurd was painfully aware of the animal’s hot breath against his ear.

“Why not?” Sigurd tried to step forward, wanting to get out of the way of the sharp teeth that were far too close to his head.

“Because – because the Lights need t’return to the sky, and there’s no way I can stay here. It’s a cave.” He said flatly, and Erikur frowned at him, his shoulders hunching up.

“I can’t let y’go back. You were goin’ t’kill me!” He snapped. The words sent a thrill of guilt through Sigurd, and swallowing, he pulled his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders.

“That’s – we needed t’see if we could get the Lights back! We-” He petered off as he realised that there was no point in denying what they were going to do. They had tied the wildling up, ready to burn him alive, and the only saving grace had been the liufr that snatched Erikur up.

“Well, what are y’going to do?” His voice sounded flat, even to him, and Sigurd risked a glance over his shoulder at Summer, who was watching him silently.

“You said you had an idea about what to do. What was it?” Erikur’s hand was tightening around the knife in his belt, and Sigurd quickly raised his hands, trying to get the wildling to relax.

“I think – I think with a bit of my help, we can get the Lights to leave you without your death.” He said quickly, and Erikur nodded in approval, turning and starting towards the wall. A piece of dried meat was retrieved, and the wildling jogged back over to hand it to him. He took it, grimacing at the grease that stained his fingers, but lifted it to his mouth and bit down anyway. It was salty-sweet, and the food was welcomed by his empty stomach. It only took two more large bites for him to finish it, and sinking down onto the ground, glanced behind him. The exit of the cave was right there, but with the liufr lying across the entrance, escape was impossible.

Silence took over the cavern for a while. The pups squeaking at their mothers was the only sound, and Sigurd was reluctant to make a scene. It was entirely possible they were being tracked by his tribe right now, and he would be returned without a scratch on him with the wildling. The thought made a small smile grow on his face, and he turned his gaze to the pups. They were small enough to fit in his hand. Erikur seemed to have permission to pet them, since the mothers kept sleeping, even as the wildling picked up one of the smallest pups and pressed his nose to its fur. A little breath, and Erikur tucked it back down before returning to sit by the fire.

“… how long have y’been out here for?” He asked eventually, and Erikur glanced up from the fire, mouth full of hide. There was a moment as he kept chewing, then spat it out, shrugging a little.

“Dun’ know. A long time.” Erikur picked up the hide and put it back in his mouth, much to Sigurd’s disgust. He hadn’t even wiped the dust off it.

“How did y’survive?” He persisted, and Erikur glanced over at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“The liufr helped.” He said shortly, and Sigurd let his gaze fall on the animal he had named Summer, who had settled down to gnaw at what looked like a femur from a tarr. They seemed just as stupid as any other animal, albeit with an unnerving amount of obedience towards Erikur.

“They can’t have. They’re beasts!” He said dismissively, wincing as Summer’s breath suddenly puffed against his ear, threatening him silently. “… Is there anything to eat?” Sigurd wasn’t particularly concerned with being polite, as Erikur hadn’t shown him any courtesy. However, the wildling didn’t take it as a jab, much to Sigurd’s disappointment, and instead got up. He didn’t make a sound as he padded over to some of the drying meat, and tearing it straight off the corpse, returned to Sigurd and dropped it into his lap with a pleasant smile.

“Here.” Sigurd gingerly picked it off his pants and bit into it. It was bland and tough, but it was sustenance, and swallowing it with a cough, reluctantly continued to chew through it. The silence was deafening, and Sigurd wasn’t used to being the one to make conversation. Usually others would fill the silence, but Erikur seemed content to chew on skin and pet a liufr sprawled next to him. Narrowing his eyes, he licked his fingers and cleared his throat again, waiting for Erikur to look at him. The wildling didn’t, and irritated, Sigurd leant forward.

“We need t’see what your abilities are with the Lights, Erikur. We need t’see how long y’can hold them in the sky for.” Erikur’s eyes flickered up to look at Sigurd, and he smirked at the shaman, the look sending a shiver of anticipation down Sigurd’s spine.

“No.” The response, however, was the last thing he expected, and mouth hanging open just a little, he glanced behind him, then at Erikur.

“You can’t be serious! You – you are holding a balance that could ruin this land inside you, and you just say no to me, the shaman you just kidnapped to ask about the damn-”

“Why should I trust y’?” Erikur’s flat tone cut him off, and bewildered, Sigurd straightened up, wondering whether he could stand.

“Because – because I’m a spokesman for the Gods! I know more than anyone in this valley about the Lights! Why would y’not trust me?”

“You haven’t given me a reason to trust you.” Erikur shrugged, and frustrated, Sigurd raked a hand through his hair. How could he show that the boy needed to trust him?! He’d always held a position of respect; he had never had to earn it after he had been blessed.

“… I’ll show you I know what I’m talkin’ about. If I can show you that, y’have to trust me.” He tried, and Erikur nodded, spitting out the hide into his hand and tucking it into the folds of the ceremony robes he was still wearing. Sigurd cringed a little to see the fur covered in dried mud from the cave floor and snow from outside, but he didn’t voice those concerns.

“Alright, Sigurd.” Erikur’s tone was cautious, and when Sigurd met his eyes, his gaze promptly flitted to the side. His face was still blank, but the shaman suddenly had a feeling the other was incredibly nervous. Sigurd couldn’t help remembering the way the wildling had been handled back at the camp, but shaking his head to dispel the guilt, he drew himself up and took a deep breath.

“Give me your hands, wildling.”

“I have a name.” Erikur’s response was sharp, but he reached out and placed in hands on Sigurd’s. The shaman stiffened; he could feel spiritual energy thrumming through the other. How powerful was he?

“Alright, Erikur, close your eyes.” Sigurd kept his own voice quiet, and when Erikur did what he asked, he looked around. The spirits were moving in the shadows of the cave, their forms blending with the shadows. The liufr were quiet, most of them sleeping. “I need you to take three deep breaths, and imagine that you a pulling a cloth from your eyes. Don’t move, and just try to feel what is around you.” Erikur’s breathing slowed, evened out, and his eyelashes fluttered as (Sigurd assumed) he tried to do what he had been told. Their hands remained locked, and Sigurd was aware of the energy inside of Erikur thrumming to greater heights as his breathing slowed even further. Almost a minute passed, and swallowing, Sigurd managed to find his voice.

“Open them.” There was a pause, and Erikur opened his eyes. His pupils shone, so bright that Sigurd had to look away, but they dimmed a moment after, the colours around the canter of his eye continuing to shift as if the Lights were trapped inside. Erikur glanced around, and froze as the spirits crawled forward, their semi-transparent shapes dissolving as they curled around Erikur and vanished. The wildling was stiff as a board as he stared down at them, and swallowing, he whistled. Almost immediately, Summer stood and strode over, sitting protectively next to Erikur as he put his hand in her fur.

“What are they?” He croaked, and Sigurd tilted his head with a smile, trying to keep his composure.  

“Spirits. They’re spirits that want to return to the other side, and with the Lights, they can. That’s why they come closer to y’.” A pause, and Sigurd reassuringly touched Erikur’s shoulder. “They can’t hurt y’, Erikur. Don’t worry.” Erikur narrowed his eyes at Sigurd, but he took a step closer and glancd over his shoulder at the spirits. He was obviously petrified, and Sigurd pulled him a little closer, trying to soothe him. “Do you trust me now?”

“I don’t know how I got the Lights.” Erikur responded weakly, and Sigurd felt a rush of confidence.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get them out.”


End file.
